Our Idiot Eden
by frozen-delight
Summary: There is virtue in patience. In waiting. Even when one waits for something that won't come back. - One-sided Sherlock/Lestrade with added Sherlock/John. Lots of pining, unrequited feelings and tragic misunderstandings. Please enjoy!


A/N: Many, many thanks to the brilliant **canonisrelative** for the both speedy and excellent beta. All remaining mistakes are mine of course.

Other than that my sincerest apologies to our beloved NSY detective inspector. Poor Lestrade, I don't know what happened.

* * *

**Our Idiot Eden**

The door is slightly ajar. Lestrade halts in front of it, hesitates, throws a contemplative gaze at his own feet, before he finally pokes his head into the room.

'We might have been happy together forever,' Susan says from the middle of the room where she's packing her suitcase. She doesn't look up.

His jaw clenches painfully at her words. 'Then why are you – give us another chance, Suze!'

Carefully, she folds one of her blouses, smooths out the creases, places it in the suitcase, picks up another item lying next to it. The suitcase is already filled to bursting. The wardrobe as good as empty.

'We tried to make a fresh start three times in the last five months, Greg. And still – the times when you came home from work early enough to spend the evening with me can be counted on the fingers of my hand!'

It's true, all of it. He really gets why she's had enough. He's disappointed her so much lately. But it's difficult to say goodbye to someone you've dated since your early college days. He thinks of their first date. She drank a cappuccino. Afterwards, a bit of froth was clinging to her upper lip. It looked so gorgeous. She allowed him to kiss it away later on the doorstep of her parents' house.

Shutting the suitcase, she looks up at him with glistening eyes. Undoubtedly, she knows the turn his thoughts have taken. Of course she does. They know everything about each other, every annoying quirk, every endearing habit.

'Don't say it,' she asks him in a soft voice. 'Don't make me cry.'

So he doesn't.

ooOoo

There is virtue in patience, his mother told him, again and again. He's taken it to heart. It's the reason he's come so far in life.

When he started training and everyone laughed at his funny accent and his superiors insinuated they wouldn't even wear a shirt like his for painting the flat, he thought of his mother's simple words of wisdom and waited calmly. Nowadays, no one laughs at him. Promising young coppers like Sally Donovan fight to get on his team. And he can afford to wear rather nice shirts.

He's never doubted his mother's advice. He's not going to start now. It's good to be patient, he tells himself. To wait. Even when one waits for something that won't come back.

ooOoo

He misses Susan. Not that they saw a lot of each other those last one, two years. Not since his promotion. But there was such comfort in the thought that he'd always come home to her, no matter how late. These days he comes home to an empty flat.

He works even longer hours than before and when there really is no more work to be done, he gets pissed at one of the nearby pubs. Usually, though, there's more than enough work.

Right now, for instance, there's this serial killer chopping off his victims' thumbs. The press are in a frenzy and Lestrade still has no clue who might be behind those gruesome crimes. Standing outside the house of victim number five, he smokes one cigarette, then another. If the forensics team don't find anything this time, he really doesn't know what they're supposed to do.

A young man approaches, tall, handsome, with the face of an angel and piercing light eyes.

Without warning, he plucks the cigarette from Lestrade's hand, takes a drag, grimaces, drops the stub and grinds it out beneath his heel. Lestrade feels too stunned to protest.

'Disgusting brand. Try Dunhill. You're doing it all wrong,' the brazen stranger announces with a posh drawl. The way those quicksilver eyes flit at the house behind Lestrade tell him that the last sentence was aimed at their investigation, not only his tobacco buying habits. Right – rich, bored kid then, trying to entertain himself with insulting the police. 'Have you looked at their nails?'

'Believe me – we've looked extensively at their hands. Or at what was left of them.'

'You were too distracted by the missing thumbs and your failed marriage to notice anything of importance. You're looking for a man of roughly five foot nine, left-handed, with medical background, who jobs as a sales representative for a nearby fitness centre, has recently spent some time in the Caribbean and, like victim number three, he's allergic to peanuts.'

Lestrade can't help himself – he sniggers. It's quite the show, hearing all that. Sadly, it's not going to be of any help.

The young man frowns. 'Look at their finger nails,' he says crisply and already turning away, he adds, 'Good night, Lestrade.'

Lestrade looks after him, perplexed. He glances down at himself – name tag on his uniform, right. No miracle then that the other knew his name. What's a miracle, though –

His breath quickening, he runs after the young man.

'How did you know about the allergy of the third victim?' he asks. 'That wasn't in the papers.'

'I didn't know, I observed.'

'Okay. Good,' Lestrade nods. His heart is beginning to race. 'Tell me then, what else have you observed?'

The young man's eyes widen in surprise, like a child's. Clearly, despite all his posh, supercilious mannerisms, he hadn't actually expected Lestrade to take him seriously. He quickly recovers, though, and rushes into a dazzling stream of explanations. Lestrade listens. It's been a long while since he's last had someone to listen to.

ooOoo

Years later, Lestrade wonders if this fateful first meeting with Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was a complete professional failure on his part. For the thought that the young man might know all those astounding things because he'd participated in the crimes never even entered his head.

In the months and years that follow, Lestrade manages to solve 132 cases. 16 times a member of his team officially files complaint for being insulted by Sherlock. The insults themselves reach a considerably higher number. The personal communications between Lestrade and Sherlock, however, amount to a proud total of six.

Beneath the dramatic, flashy exterior, Sherlock Holmes is an intensely private man. He solves seven cases for Lestrade before he tells him, seemingly without cause and context, that he plays the violin. After that, Lestrade has to wait another nine months before his consulting detective reveals something personal again.

Understandably, Lestrade is considerably surprised when Sherlock's creepy elder brother, who frequently arranges meetings in strange places and seems to know everything, oozing threat like a malicious crab, tells him in silky vowels that still manage to make Lestrade's skin crawl, even after being exposed to them for the umpteenth time, 'Sherlock trusts you, Inspector. I advise you to use that to his advantage – and yours.'

Lestrade wants to laugh out loud, but no – the man is actually serious.

Okay, on second thought, it's not all that weird. Growing up with creepy Big Brother and the extra burden of being a genius can't really have helped the boy to develop normal levels and methods of socialisation. And if Lestrade now happens to be the person who enables him to make progress in that stunted area, so be it. He's going to give Sherlock all the time in the world.

ooOoo

'Could you be any more obvious about the fact that you want to shag me?' Sherlock suddenly asks at one crime scene, causing Lestrade to blush furiously. Thank God there's no one else in the room with them, apart from a dead body.

Not that Lestrade's particularly bothered by his desire to have sex with Sherlock. Hell, he's a sensual man, there are plenty of people he'd like to shag. Sally Donovan for instance. She's damn attractive. Even a fool like Anderson is able to spot that. But Lestrade's always been too professional to tell her so.

He really hopes that Sherlock's never going to illuminate her in that infuriatingly casual and posh way of his, while he's bent over a corpse at one of their crime scenes. Sally would hate Lestrade for it. She wants appreciation for her skills in crime solving, quite understandably, not for that gorgeous mop of hair and muscular, well-formed torso.

But Christ, he's not blind. And there's nothing wrong with a healthy sex drive. And it's not his fault if his work constantly puts him in contact with extremely attractive people.

Sherlock happens to be devilishly handsome, perhaps in his own way even more so than Sally. He's got great legs. And hot cheekbones. Lestrade would be a dead loss of a copper if he'd failed to notice that. But Sherlock also is the most observant man Lestrade's ever met. Of course he'd notice Lestrade's noticing.

While it's pretty embarrassing for Lestrade to be told to his face that his sexual fantasies about Sherlock are written all over his body, he's not that bothered by Sherlock's acuity. What really bothers him is something else entirely.

The thing is, Lestrade doesn't just want to have sex with Sherlock – he's fallen in love with him. Just a little. Okay, more than a little. And he really doesn't know what he'd do if Sherlock ever came to realise that.

With all the insouciance that's left to him, what with his heart beating a mad rhythm against his ribcage and his face rivalling a beetroot in colour, Lestrade shrugs off Sherlock's remark. In the end, though, it doesn't really matter whether he manages to pull off his desperate demonstration of 'So what?' as blithely as he's striving to, for Sherlock's attention is already firmly fixed back on the corpse.

Neither of them mentions the subject again.

ooOoo

He meets Sergeant Carol Wilson from the Drugs Squad. Given that she's not part of his division, Lestrade sees no problem with acting on his immediate attraction. Despite all the horrible things she's forced to witness every day though her work, she's a cheerful, optimistic person, staggeringly strong-willed and confident. On top of that, she's gorgeous to boot, with legs that rival even the wonderful Sherlock Holmes's.

A year after they've started dating, they're already getting married. The way to the altar is less of a rollercoaster ride than it was with Susan, they're both too old and experienced for that, but it's a glorious time. It feels so good to not be alone. And to have a wife who is just as immersed in her work as he is.

Sometimes, nowadays, he's the one sitting at home, waiting for Carol to get back from work. It's extremely fair and well-balanced. Apart from the slight doubts at the back of Lestrade's mind that it's not always the work which is keeping her late. He's not as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes, but he's a well-trained copper enough – of course he sees that he's not the only one to notice his wife's amazing legs.

ooOoo

One day, just like that, no notice in advance, John Watson enters Sherlock's life and Lestrade doesn't know what to think.

These last five years, he's given Sherlock ample of time, to allow him to slowly adapt to the idea of having someone in his life on whom he can rely. Whom he can trust. A friend. He gave Sherlock the chance to set the pace. He's never pushed, never pulled, not even when Sherlock rudely poked and prodded him.

Turns out now the shy and dashing man with the great legs isn't averse to a more direct approach. John Watson claims a place in his life, heart and work as though there's no tomorrow, following him everywhere, and Sherlock just lets him. No, worse than that, Sherlock acts like a love-starved teenager, all but throwing himself at the first friendly face fate swept his way.

Maybe that's why Lestrade denies knowing Sherlock better than John. Because apparently, he really doesn't, whatever he thought before.

Maybe that's also the reason he tries to warn John off. As though he didn't know very well that Sherlock's a good man. Still feeling sore with hurt and spite, he climbs into the police car waiting outside. Thankfully, Sally is too busy grumbling about Sherlock and wasted time to pay attention to his frayed state of mind.

ooOoo

'Isn't it nice that your impossible little protégé has found a friend?' Carol asks laughingly. She always laughs when she's talking about Sherlock. She seems to think that for Lestrade, he's some sort of social project, similar to the way other child- or grandchildless people go into poor areas and introduce the children there to the theatre or whatever else they consider the key to a better future. 'Everybody in our compartment is left speechless.'

As she tilts her head to the side, a cloud of cloyingly sweet, unfamiliar perfume wafts towards Lestrade. It gives him a headache.

He quickly turns away.

ooOoo

Sherlock kissed him once, at the beginning of their acquaintance, when Lestrade could still look at the young man without feeling impossibly weak in the knees. It wasn't an unpleasant experience, but not a big deal, really. Without doubt, Sherlock's mouth was more than a bit fine and what he did with it wasn't too bad either. But Lestrade took one look at his eyes and whisked him off to rehab.

Getting Sherlock clean became his top priority. He didn't waste any time dwelling on that kiss and soon forgot all about it. Coming down from his high, Sherlock didn't seem to remember, either.

Years later, the memory of the kiss comes back to him. The selfish voice at the back of his mind suddenly wonders if maybe, maybe in the case he were to find something during one of his drugs busts at 221B, a similar occurrence could take place.

In the end, however, it's John Watson that Sherlock leans in to kiss. And he's not even high.

ooOoo

During a bad moment, and there are many bad moments since Carol has left, Lestrade feels like a farmer who finds that someone else has reaped what he'd sown. In the dead of the night, a thief has crept up to his abode and coldly, cruelly taken with him everything that he'd put so much effort and time in.

Then Lestrade remembers that the field in which he planted the seeds wasn't his to begin with. It's a good thing he doesn't usually think in metaphors.

This realisation doesn't take away the feeling of regret and resentment, though.

ooOoo

'Doctor Watson has a most remarkable influence on my brother,' Mycroft Holmes drawls smoothly at the end of a tiring case involving three European governments. An insincere smile follows his words. It sends cold shivers down Lestrade's back and makes him fear for the good doctor's life.

It also forces him wonder, for the hundredth or so time, what on earth he did wrong that he never posed such a promise and threat to the man behind the British government.

ooOoo

Carol comes back, leaves again, comes back. The tears, the arguments, the fierce hugs are all beginning to grow rather dull and pointless. They have lots of affection for each other, it seems, but little tolerance.

Lestrade wonders if he wasted too much of his patience on Sherlock. If he doesn't have enough patience left for his wife.

Not that Carol agrees with him on that. Once, when she's roaring drunk, she suddenly curses out, 'Dammit, can't you stop being so infuriatingly patient!' She flings her wine glass at him. He ducks. A dark stain appears on the wall behind him, like a splatter of blood at a crime scene.

The next day, silently and soberly, they repaper the room together.

It's a shame that Lestrade's mother has been dead these last twenty years. She could have advised him.

ooOoo

It hurts. Hurts like hell. After all they've been through together, Sherlock doesn't even know his first name.

Not the man's fault if he doesn't love Lestrade, if he doesn't seek out his friendship – but can't he at least be a little grateful for all the friendship that Lestrade's shown him? Apparently not. The egotistical princess of a consulting detective only sees him as the brainless tool to get access to interesting murders. That's all. It's frighteningly little. And more painful than anything he could have imagined.

In a calm moment, Lestrade reminds himself that knowing someone's first name is no indicator of Sherlock's attitude towards that person. After all, Sherlock is able to retain both Sally's first and last name. And yet their relationship is frightfully antagonistic.

Then he sees Sherlock reach for John's hand with an eerily soft smile on his face and all calm leaves him.

ooOoo

Sometime after the spectacularly anticlimactic Moriarty trial, Carol comes to visit him in his office. They've separated again, this time for good, even though they're not yet divorced. She's looking good. Well, naturally. She always is.

'Greg, I'm worried about you,' she says without preamble. 'There's something fishy about this Moriarty business. I know you've done well for yourself so far, but – it might be better if you stopped consulting Sherlock Holmes.'

'Carol – he helped us catch Peter Ricoletti, number one on Interpol's Most Wanted list since 1982. It would be madness not to consult him.'

She shakes her head, her hair bouncing prettily around her face. There's nothing patronising in the gesture. She only looks worried. And kind, kinder maybe than he deserves.

'You're blind, Greg, you've always been, because the man's sexy as the devil. But you're going to be in so much trouble if you carry on like this.'

She's right of course. Soon enough, he's in serious trouble. Everybody in his vicinity is suggesting, though not in those precise words, that Sherlock's great legs made him overlook the man's even greater fraudulences. He listens to them. He starts doubting. His belief in the man is less firm than his love of him.

He calls, to give Sherlock the chance to escape arrest at least. With visible contempt, Sherlock spurns the opportunity to run. Or maybe he just doesn't want to spare Lestrade the pain of having to arrest him.

His pale eyes glitter disdainfully as they slap the handcuffs on his wrists. They briefly meet Lestrade's, two arrogant chips of ice, uncannily reminiscent of their first meeting. 'You're doing it all wrong,' they seem to proclaim. 'But not that I ever expected anything else.' Lestrade suddenly feels violently sick.

The next day, Sherlock's dead and all that's left of him in Lestrade's life are nasty newspaper headlines and a guilty burn on his forehead where Sherlock's index finger touched it.

ooOoo

He doesn't allow himself to cry. Not when he betrayed Sherlock like that. John sheds plenty of tears, enough for both of them.

He doesn't have any problems with forgiving Lestrade the role he played in the events leading up to Sherlock's fatal plunge from Bart's rooftop. Or maybe he's just making good use of it to guilt Lestrade into listening patiently to all his outbursts of regret, of despair, of loneliness. – No, of course not, Lestrade corrects himself, that's just another spiteful suggestion of his jealous, grief-wrecked mind.

They meet, regularly, at some pub or other. John is a discreet fellow, and a decent one on top of it, so he doesn't walk through life like a ghost, inflicting his grief on everybody in his vicinity. He soldiers on, bravely. But once he's had two or three beers, his defences are lowered, broken down, and he erupts into tears and talks endlessly of how much he misses Sherlock. Unfortunately, the one who has to witness all that is Lestrade, usually.

He listens and comforts the best he can. And locks his own sorrow away as securely as possible.

One time he doesn't quite succeed. He stares at John and feels angry and horribly bereft. He opens his mouth to say something unforgivably selfish such as 'Shut up! Shut the fuck up! You had him at least!'

He doesn't say it, of course. Instead, he hastily excuses himself to the gents.

ooOoo

Six months after Sherlock's fall, his name has finally been cleared, undoubtedly due to the rigorous efforts on his elder brother's part, and Sally Donovan warily peeks into Lestrade's office.

He hasn't seen her since the night of Sherlock's arrest. She's been promoted as head of another division, for which he's very grateful. For he really doesn't know what he'd have done if he'd had to come face to face with her every day.

Seeing her again now is first and foremost a surprise, because the first thing that he feels isn't anger, bizarrely, but the hot desire to crowd her against his desk and to fuck her right there and then.

Awkwardly, he clears his throat and looks at her expectantly.

Hesitantly, she says, 'Sir, I came to – apologise. Even when I still thought he was guilty, I never wanted him to take his life. And now – well. I'm sorry.'

'Why are you apologising to me?' he asks carefully.

'Because you wouldn't have arrested him if it hadn't been for me.'

'Was still my choice, though. My – mistake.'

She takes a closer look at him. Unfortunately, she can be incredibly discerning at times. She is a good officer, after all.

'You're really mourning for him, aren't you,' she says in a hushed, almost awed voice.

Without warning, all the unshed tears of the last six months start streaming down his cheeks. Wordlessly, she comes around the desk and stands beside him. She guides his head to rest on her shoulder and strokes over his hair with strong and steady fingers. It's the most comfort he's had in the last twenty years.

ooOoo

He dreams of Sherlock with frightening regularity. His subconscious conjures up all kinds of intimate scenarios that he experienced together with Susan or Carol and seamlessly replaces his wives with the dead consulting detective. But it never allows him to find release.

One moment he's happily wrapped up in Sherlock, desperate warmth, need and want thrumming on his skin and under it, panting in unison with the beautiful man beneath him, and the next he surges up to kiss him once again – and wakes up in horror, for Sherlock's eyes are shining black pits of soulless chemistry.

No matter how much he hopes and prays for it – his cruel subconscious never allows him to make love to a Sherlock who isn't high. Nor does it grant him the relief of actually getting off.

ooOoo

There's a case. A tricky one. Murder of a member of cabinet with the door locked on the inside. Politicians and press alike expect them to solve it speedily. And Lestrade just can't fit the pieces together.

He broods over the files day and night, examines the crime scene most thoroughly, tries to connect all kinds of random details – but none of it makes sense. He's just not good enough. No one is. The only person who could have explained what happened and brought the criminal to justice is dead.

John's read about it in the papers. He comes over with a beer and envelops Lestrade in a crushing hug. This time they're both crying.

'It's all right,' John says gently. 'You don't need to do what he did. You don't need to solve everything. It's all right.'

But of course it's not all right.

Whatever Lestrade might have said or done or even believed, for one short, fatal moment, out of spite, out of anger, out of jealousy – Sherlock _was_ a good man and now he's dead. The world is a worse place for it. Crime abounds. The case solve rate of Lestrade's department plummets dramatically. Injustice rules.

It's not all right at all.

Sherlock is dead and Lestrade's world is a worse place for it. So much loneliness. So many reserves of patience – preserved for whom? If only his mother were there to tell him.

ooOoo

There is virtue in patience, he chants to himself. It's the last clear, strong thought in a mind consumed by grief, guilt and a horrible sense of insufficiency. It's good to be patient, he tells himself. To wait. Even though he's waiting for something that won't come back, ever.

ooOoo

After hours of restless tossing about in bed, Lestrade accepts that he won't find sleep tonight and descends to the kitchen to prepare an extra strong cup of coffee. Rubbing his eyes, he reaches the bottom of the stairs – and suddenly freezes. There's a faint glow of light emanating from the living room. Cautiously, he steals closer.

The lamp on the desk is lit and a man stands in front of it, perusing Lestrade's files.

Lestrade's chest clenches painfully. The outline of the dark coat is unmistakable. He must have walked straight into another nightmare.

Without turning around, the man says in an uncannily familiar baritone, 'If Mrs Leigh's sister is in possession of a young Siamese cat, arrest her.'

Just like that Lestrade knows he's not dreaming. The resurrected Sherlock in his dreams is a slippery, wayward imp, drugged to the eyeballs, but he's never returned from the dead without so much as a greeting.

Sherlock puts the file back on the desk and turns around. The breath catches in Lestrade's throat. It's been over a year, but he hasn't changed in the slightest. Nor has the impact he has on Lestrade's knees. They've softened away into the wobbliest jelly. Even if he wanted to, Lestrade couldn't possibly move.

'Lestrade. Good. I need you to make an arrest,' Sherlock says in clipped tones as he advances towards him, the soft light of the lamp behind him illuminating him like a pale, gliding ghost.

'You – need me – to make an arrest?' Lestrade repeats slowly. Again and again, during the past few months, he'd hoped, _prayed_, for a second chance to say all those unsaid sentences burdening his heart. _I'm sorry. I always believed in you. Forgive me. I'm proud of you... _Now that he could actually say them, his mind is blank.

Sherlock says, 'Yes, don't be stupid. That's what you do, isn't it?' He smirks slightly. 'Not that you've done it all that much these past few months.'

The insult barely registers with Lestrade. Numbly, he mumbles, 'Arrest – what – who?'

'For goodness's sake, what's the matter with you, Lestrade?' Sherlock says impatiently. 'I'd not thought it possible, but you've become even slower. I need you to arrest Colonel Sebastian Moran, the last remaining influential member of Moriarty's web of crime. In less than two hours, he's going to attempt to murder me. I'll explain the particulars in the taxi.'

'Where are we going?' Lestrade asks, feeling thoroughly dazed, Sherlock's words dancing weightlessly through his mind like a roundelay of young ballerinas.

'First of all, we need to collect John. And then it's back to Baker Street, where Moran will attempt to shoot me. In vain, I should add.'

'John?' Lestrade repeats. A cold, invisible wall seems to spring up between them. Lestrade hates himself for it. Miraculously, Sherlock has returned from the dead. He ought to be glad that he can now renew their friendship, make up for betraying him, and instead, pathetically, once more he's all but consumed by the green-eyed monster.

A shadow of uncertainty passes over Sherlock's face at the mention of John.

Christ! Lestrade realises with a sick sort of jubilation. He's not been to see John yet. He's come to him first.

He doesn't allow himself to hope, not yet. But his heartbeat quickens all the same. 'Why?' he asks softly. 'Why aren't you with John?'

Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly. 'You've always been quick to forgive. And I need you to help me reconcile John. Put your coat on, we need to get going.'

The remark stings more than Lestrade would have thought humanly possible. Ever since he's met Sherlock, he's wanted to give him everything he has. He's been more patient, more generous with him than he's ever managed to be with anyone else. It's crushing that Sherlock wants none of it.

Just the cases, the arrests, and a little help in bringing John back to his side, that's all he wants, Lestrade realises. He grates his teeth. A moment ago, he wanted to ask for forgiveness himself. Now he's not sure he can grant it.

'You've tormented me for months and months, Sherlock! It's been more than a bloody year! I've suffered every bloody day of it!' he lashes out wildly. 'Do you honestly think we can go back to business just like that?'

'Why not? Your department's crime solving rate has been atrocious without my input, but it's hardly my fault that the MET only employs incompetent imbeciles. Besides, now I'm back and handing you the arrest of one of the most dangerous criminals of our time on a silver plate. You'll be promoted in no time, so what's the fuss? You're being ridiculous –'

Sherlock crumples to the floor, holding his cheek where Lestrade's fist collided with it, looking up at him in stupefied accusation. Rubbing his tingling knuckles, Lestrade stares back down at him. It's not a truly satisfying sight.

Images from all the films and shows he's seen, where a lost one returned home to be greeted with a powerful blend of anger and joy, resurface in his mind as he's looking down at Sherlock, sprawled out on the floor, stunned, nursing a burning cheek. Perfect division of labour, then, Lestrade thinks with bile. He's punched Sherlock, now John can kiss him. Great.

Wearily, he shakes his head at Sherlock. 'It's not like that. I mean, yeah, it is, but the case solve rate has nothing to do with it. That's not why I missed you and – and needed you.'

Sherlock's eyes widen. The only other time Lestrade has seen that expression on his face was the one time he really managed to surprise the consulting detective, back at their first meeting, when Lestrade wanted to hear his deductions instead of telling him to piss off.

Oh, God. He'd really never known. Lestrade had been so afraid he'd know too much that he'd prevented him from knowing _anything_. All these years, when Lestrade was waiting for Sherlock's friendship or whatever else there could be between them, Sherlock had apparently thought that the DI only associated with him in order to consult him and profit from his cleverness.

Sherlock is still sitting on the floor, staring up at him. He doesn't say anything. Oh, God. Lestrade can't remember having ever seen him so still, so quiet. If he'd known all these years that he actually had the power to shut the mighty Sherlock Holmes up for good, that might have come in handy at some of the crime scenes. In this context, however, it's merely stifling.

Lestrade gulps. 'Tell me more about this Moran guy who I'm supposed to arrest,' he says quickly because he can't deal with the crushing weight of What Might Have Been, at least not now.

There's a soft, graceful flurry of movement beneath and Lestrade sees a hand, Sherlock's hand, reaching up for him. Awkwardly, he grasps at it. Sherlock staggers to his feet, squeezing Lestrade's fingers firmly as he does so. The look of utmost wonder is still plastered to his face, intermingled with traces of something that might be wistfulness. He straightens himself, squares his shoulders and blinks, and whatever that unfamiliar expression was, it vanishes like a spectre into the shadows of the twilit room.

'I was right,' he remarks offhandedly, because the brilliant bastard always has to have the last word, no matter how dire the situation. 'You _are_ quick to forgive.'

This time around it sounds a lot less like an insult.

Then he strides towards the door. Lestrade follows him.

* * *

Thanks for reading. As ever, reviews are love.


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